


a clean getaway

by Jae



Series: what sounds a lot like love [3]
Category: Bandom, Empires, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jae/pseuds/Jae





	a clean getaway

Tom said he'd take care of everything, but it wasn't till they landed in Havana that he realized what a terrible idea that was. He wasn't the type of person who could take care of everything. He didn't know how to take care of anything.

It was partly that the city was bigger and busier than he expected, and more full of Americans, of people who might have seen his picture in the paper or the post office. He led Jon into the lobbies of a few large, beautiful and very expensive hotels, where the way they were dressed raised eyebrows but where everyone was exquisitely polite, but Tom kept thinking he saw g-men and hustling Jon back out again. It was stupid to be so worried, he told himself as Jon bought a lemonade from a street vendor and leaned against a wall while Tom tried to figure out what to do. It was stupid to worry, he told himself, and then in the next hotel he heard a flat Midwestern drawl in line in front of him, and one glance at the man's crew cut and cop shoes and the bulge of a gun underneath his coat sent Tom back out into the street, dragging Jon behind him. It was stupid not to worry, he told himself. He thought maybe he was just stupid.

There wasn't really time for a plan when they left, in the aftermath of the last job, the exhilaration and the rush and the danger. There wasn't really time, he told himself reassuringly as he watched Jon buy a string of wooden beads from a little girl with a tray outside the hotel and then wrap it around his wrist, holding it up for Tom to admire. Of course, that wasn't true at all, Tom knew. He was pretty damn sure that Carden had had a plan, and a back-up plan, and a back-up back-up plan, and chances were that Butcher and Sisky, wherever they were, weren't huddled in an alley behind a hotel with a gun wrapped in a coat at the bottom of a suitcase and ten thousand American dollars in a paper bag and nowhere to sleep and absolutely no idea what to do next. Somehow Tom was pretty sure that everyone else had managed to make a plan but all he'd thought to do was buy their passage and trust that the rest would take care of itself. He'd thought that getting them out of the country, alive and with his share of the take from the last bank job, was the hardest part. Now, standing in the dirt and noise of the street with everything he owned or cared about in two bags at his feet or within arm's reach, he realized how wrong he'd been.

The problem was that he'd always been part of a gang. There'd always been other people around to think about where to sleep and how to avoid the cops and where to get the money changed, and even when Tom had parts he was in charge of, there were always other people to bounce ideas off of and to yell at him when he forgot things. Tom had always been part of a gang, and maybe he hadn't been the most important part, maybe he'd just been muscle along for the ride (he still flushed when he remembered Carden saying that, not yelling it in anger, Tom could have forgiven that, but saying it calmly, dismissively as he turned away), but Tom had always been part of a gang and now he wasn't and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. It might have been smarter to have thought about that fact before he'd hauled his ass all the way to a foreign country, but whatever the guys had accused him of in the end, it was never that he was too smart.

He walked over to the end of the alley and leaned against the wall, getting his jacket dusty, looking out at the city square. Jon had ducked away somewhere, leaving his bag behind, and Tom slid down the wall and sat next to it. It wasn't like he was totally useless. If he'd been alone, he would have known what to do. He knew how to take care of himself; he'd wound up alone and at loose ends in big cities and small towns before, after jobs went bad or gangs broke up or the first time just running as far as he could get from home. He'd done what he had to back then, and he'd survived just fine, and he hadn't even had money back then, not the first couple of times. But he'd been alone then, and there were things it was easier to do when you were alone, things it was easier to do when someone else wasn't there to see it and know the types of things you were capable of. It was different when you had someone else depending on you. It was different when you gave a damn what happened to someone else.

Just then Jon came back around the corner from the street, his jacket thrown over his arm, his face a little red in the heat under his fedora. "Hey, look what I found," he said, sinking down to crouch next to Tom in the dust. He opened his hand next to Tom's face, revealing two cigars. "Want one?" he said, and when Tom shook his head he said, "You know they're good." When Tom didn't answer he just sat back on his heels and trimmed one and then lit it, exhaling with a satisfied sigh. He said, "You don't know what you're missing."

Jon sat there for a few minutes, absorbed in his smoke, and then said, "So where are we staying tonight?" His voice was easy and casual, like he thought Tom had an answer, like he didn't think there was any problem at all. For a moment Tom just gaped at him. Then he thought maybe there wasn't any problem for Jon. Jon had traveled a bunch of places before he'd met Tom, Europe with his family and Mexico on his own, plus all over the country reporting for his paper. Besides, Jon was just capable in a lazy way Tom was never able to master. Even the things Tom knew how to do well, like safe cracking, he was always kind of anxious about. Jon knew how to take care of things. Maybe Tom could just let him take care of this too.

"I don't know," Tom said, his voice a little softer than he would have liked. Jon glanced over at him, then slumped down a little further against the wall. He blew a perfect smoke ring, then said,

"Well, you'll figure it out."

Something about the careless way he said it drove Tom to his feet and sent him striding down the length of the wall, his hands in his pockets. It was easy for Jon to say, he thought, and as he walked out into the square he slowed down. Maybe it wasn't so easy for Jon to say, at that. Over the past few months when Jon had been traveling with the gang, Tom had noticed how Jon had had to bite his tongue to keep from saying certain things, how sometimes he hadn't bothered to bite his tongue but had told Carden or William when he thought they were doing something stupid. It hadn't made a difference, of course, but he'd said it. Tom had known how frustrated Jon was when Tom insisted that he keep out of the bank jobs, that he keep his hands clean just in case they – just in case. For all his ease Jon knew how to take care of things, and he liked to have them taken care of his way. But for all that, he'd never told Tom what to do – the only one in the gang who hadn't, except for Siska, and probably if he'd hung around longer Siska would've started bossing him around too.

But even when it was clear Jon thought he could do something better, he never told Tom how to do it. Sometimes Tom had seen Jon's hands twitching on his knees as Tom drove, taking corners way too fast, or when Tom stuffed all his and Jon's clothes sloppily into a bag, mixing them together and wrinkling everything, even Jon's fancy shirts. Sometimes when it was clear Tom didn't know how to do something Jon would show him, but even then he never made a big fuss about it. When he'd noticed that Tom was slow to read – not that he couldn't read, he could, but he wasn't as quick as some people – he'd taken to reading out loud from the paper, spreading it out on the table so Tom could lean over it and follow along, pretending he was looking at the pictures or the ads. He left things around for Tom too, magazines or books that weren't too hard, but he never asked about them or commented when they disappeared into Tom's bag. Jon never told Tom what to do, except the one time, the first time they met, Tom's gun pointed at Jon in the lobby of the bank and Jon saying calmly, "Don't shoot." He'd told Tom what to do then and Tom had done it, that one time. There was that one time and there was one other place, too, where Jon told Tom what to do and Tom did it, gladly, so gladly that his face heated up now just thinking of it. But unlike anyone else Tom had ever known Jon didn't think that just because Tom liked it in one place that he wanted someone to boss him around all the time. Mostly Jon just left Tom to do what he thought was right, and trusted him to do it.

Tom stood looking out over the square, biting his lip. He knew that if he went and got Jon, Jon would know what to do, would probably have a bunch of ideas, all of them good and none of them anything Tom would have thought of. He glanced back at where Jon was sitting, smoking thoughtfully and raising a hand to Tom. He didn't want to go and get Jon. He wanted to figure it out himself, the way Jon trusted him to do.

There were dozens of people still out in the square, even though the sun was starting to set, and as Tom wandered aimlessly down the street they called out to him, in Spanish and in English. A young boy waved a stack of tattered papers at him, and Tom smiled at him politely as he passed, then turned back. He gave the boy a coin and then knelt in the street, spreading the map out in front of him, the boy pointing out places when Tom asked, grimacing as Tom tried out the tiny bits of Spanish he'd picked up on his travels, answering him in English that was much better than Tom had a right to hope for. When he was done he stuffed the map in his back pocket and watched as the boy put the rest of his maps in a box and then got on his bike to ride home for the night.

"Wait," Tom said. "Can I borrow your bike?" and the boy looked at him like he was crazy, and then shook his head like he didn't understand, though his English had been perfectly fine a minute ago.

"Wait, here," Tom said, and pulled a bill out of his pocket. "I'll give you twenty bucks for it – and another twenty if you can find me another bike." The boy leapt off and shoved his bike at Tom, then went running off to return quickly with another bike. "Come on," Tom said, and the boy followed him out of the square.

As they rounded the corner Jon said without looking up, "I hope you've figured out where we're going. I want a bed and some food and a drink, absolutely not in that order." Then he looked up and laughed. "Are you and your little friend going out to play, Tommy?"

"Shut up and get your ass on that bike," Tom said, smiling. The little boy held out the bike for Jon, then ran off with the money Tom handed him.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jon said, but he got on the bike obediently, tossing his bag into the little basket on the front. "Wow, the glamorous life of a bank robber, I had no idea what I was in for when you kidnapped me."

"Shut up," Tom said again, taking the map out of his back pocket and folding it into a square, holding it in one hand as he took off down the street. He caught Jon looking at it, but Jon didn't ask, just started pedaling, speeding past Tom and laughing as Tom caught up.

It was a little further than it looked on the map, or maybe Tom wasn't reading it right. As the sun started to set Jon pulled over to the side of the road and stood with his bike between his legs, breathing heavily. Tom circled back around him. "Come on," he said, "we're almost there." He wasn't sure that was true, exactly, but they weren't going to get there any faster just sitting here.

"All right, all right," Jon said irritably, "just – I'm not really used to, like, manual labor here, my job involves sitting in a chair and typing. I'm not used to being on the run, or on the ride, or whatever. You should have warned me – I would have gotten in shape for this."

"Yeah," Tom said, "I've been meaning to say something to you. You really should work on your stamina."

"Fuck you," Jon said, casting a narrow look Tom's way, then smiling as Tom looked away. "I've never heard you complain about my stamina before."

"Well, you know me, I didn't want to be rude," and Jon shoved him and then took off on the bike, looking over his shoulder as Tom chased him.

After another mile they had finally left behind all traces of the expensive hotels and tourist beaches, entering a neighborhood that was shabbier than the ones they'd seen in the city, but still swelling with light and music, people out on the streets calling to each other. Tom slowed down for the last few blocks, following the directions the little boy had marked on his map. Jon hung back in the doorway as Tom went into a small storefront with an old woman behind the counter. Her English was not much better than his Spanish, but eventually they came to an agreement, the old woman filling a bag with ham and cheese and bread, lifting down a bottle of rum from the shelf, and pointing him towards a side door that opened onto the beach.

There was a small whitewashed shack on a deserted patch of dry sand just above the high tide line, a hammock slung between two trees near the front door. The shack itself was no more than one small room, most of the room taken up by a bed draped in mosquito netting, one chair and a small table pushed up against the wall, a narrow wardrobe and a tub in the opposite corner. Tom dumped his paper sack on the table and pulled out the bottle of rum. Jon found a glass in the wardrobe and wiped the dust off with his shirt.

"Aren't you fancy?" Tom said as he took a swig from the bottle. Jon grinned and sat in the chair, holding his glass up for Tom to fill it. Then he made a sandwich of the bread and cheese and passed half up to Tom where he was leaning against the wall.

They ate silently. Now that they finally had reached a destination, Tom felt a little strange, tense and restless, like he was waiting for something, like he wasn't sure what Jon would say or do now that they were settled. It wasn't not like he expected Jon to dislike it; Jon had never been particularly picky about the hideouts the gang had found on the road, and even now he sat back in his chair and looked around him with satisfaction. Then he glanced up at Tom with the same look.

"I thought we'd stay here at least a few days, till we figure out if we like it. Not a lot of people come out here from the city, that's what they told me anyway, so nobody should find us, we can stay as long as we want if we like it, but if we don't like it we can head further south, there's a bunch of places we can –"

"I like it," Jon said quietly. Tom flushed and turned away a little, picking the bottle up off the table, his shoulder against the wall. Behind him he heard Jon's chair push against the floor. He heard Jon get up but even after a minute Jon didn't touch him, didn't turn him around with a hand on his hip or kiss the back of his neck. Finally he turned around himself, to see Jon emptying their bags out on the bed.

"What are you doing?" he asked as he came closer.

"Unpacking," Jon said, shaking out one of his shirts and hanging it in the wardrobe.

"What – now?" Tom asked, sitting down on the bed, shoving the clothes out of the way.

Jon picked up another shirt from the floor where it had fallen. "Yes, now. Some of us are civilized – stop pushing that stuff around," he said as another shirt fell. He looked at Tom until Tom felt his face heat up. "Sit down and wait for me," he said, his voice low and firm, and Tom looked away but sat where he was.

Jon took his time hanging his clothes up, glancing over at Tom every now and then. Tom could tell he was dragging things out just to tease him, but he sat on the bed waiting, handing a shirt or a pair of pants to Jon occasionally, Jon's hand brushing his. But when Jon had sorted out all of his own clothes and started on Tom's, Tom thought that was a little much. "Just shove my stuff in the drawer, I don't care," he said, standing up, but Jon stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"I said wait for me," he said again, low, his hand circling Tom's wrist, and Tom swallowed and then sat back down.

Tom didn't have many clothes, but Jon folded them all up carefully with an exaggerated slowness. He kept glancing over at Tom with growing amusement, until finally Tom had had enough. He got up and pushed Jon back against the wardrobe door, throwing the bag Jon was holding onto the floor.

"I said –" Jon said, then shut his mouth when Tom slid to his knees. Tom opened his pants for him, then looked up at him.

"What were you saying?" he asked innocently, and laughed when Jon grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled it, hard.

It was Tom's turn to take his own sweet time, which he loved to do. Jon let him, sliding his hand down over Tom's cheek, leaning back against the door with his eyes closed. Finally, though, even Jon's patience was stretched to the limit, and he came with a shout, his hand fisted in Tom's hair.

Tom wiped his mouth on Jon's pants and let Jon tug him to his feet. When Jon tried to kiss him, though, Tom turned his mouth aside. "Don't –" he said, and when Jon looked at him Tom said, "Just not – not all slow like that, I don't – I don't want to wait."

"All right," Jon said, and then swung him suddenly around so Tom was facing the wall, braced against his forearms. Jon pushed his pants down and Tom stepped out of them and spread his legs, spreading them wider when Jon kicked lightly at his calf. "All right," Jon said again, pulling Tom's hips back, sliding his hand around Tom's cock. Jon fucked him hard and fast, the way he had at the very beginning, hidden in back rooms and gas station bathrooms and in the woods, Jon's mouth on his shoulder and Tom's mouth against his own arm to catch any sound. Back at the beginning it had felt dangerous, secret, and it was; Tom knew the other guys, Carden, would think it careless, reckless, to get involved with a hostage, to get attached. Back at the beginning Tom had thought it safer to hide it, though he hadn't been able to keep it hidden for long. Butcher knew first, could tell just by looking at him somehow, or by looking at the way Tom watched Jon. Butcher knew first but he didn't care, and then Carden knew and he cared, he cared a lot. He thought it was careless, reckless, "stupid," he'd hissed at him in the hallway as Butcher put a hand on his arm, "don't you think, don't you ever think, what if we need to get rid of him, what if he tries to get away, he knows enough, he could hurt us –"

"I won't," Jon had said over Tom's shoulder. "I swear, you can trust me –"

"I guess we'll have to," Carden had said bitterly. He looked at Tom. "It's on you, when he fucks us over, whether he does it on purpose or just by accident. It'll be your fault when this all gets fucked up. I won't forget."

It had bothered Tom more than he'd wanted to admit, even when Butcher said to him, "Don't worry about it, Tommy, just – be careful," before he took off after Carden. It had bothered Tom because Carden had a habit of being right. When he'd told Jon that, Jon had smiled and pulled Tom's hand away from where it was covering his mouth.

"Sure he does, but here's the thing," Jon had said. "So do I," and when Tom had started to speak he said, "I swear, I swear you can trust me."

"It's not that," Tom said, and Jon had said,

"I swear you won't fuck this up," and then Jon had kissed him.

Jon was right, Tom knew, he trusted Jon, but he still hadn't been able to forget Carden's words. They'd stayed with him, in the back of his mind, reminding him of exactly whose fault it would be when things ended badly. But in the end Carden had been wrong, for once. In the end things weren't ending badly. They were ending here, far away from the scene of the last crime, with Tom free and Jon safe and both of them together, exactly the way Tom had wanted it. Things weren't ending at all, exactly the way Tom had wanted it. For once Carden had been wrong. For once Tom was getting what he wanted, and he was getting to keep it. He tried to say that, he tried to tell Jon but the words came out wrong, mumbled against his arm. He heard Jon laughing against his shoulder.

"You want it, huh," he said. "Well, it must be your lucky night," and he put his hand around Tom's throat and pulled his mouth away from his arm so he could hear Tom when he came.

When Jon let him go Tom fell onto his stomach on the bed, the worn springs creaking under his weight. "Jesus, it's hot," Jon said, and Tom got up onto his knees to struggle with the painted-over window. When it didn't give after a minute Jon said, "No, come here," and Tom got up and went over to him. "Come here," Jon said, and led him outside.

It was cool outside, a breeze coming off the ocean, and Tom started to walk down towards the water when Jon tugged at his hand. "No, here," he said, and climbed into the hammock. Tom climbed in after him, the hammock swinging precariously for a moment until Tom thought they'd both fall out, but Jon grabbed the tree behind them and the hammock settled into a gentle sway. Tom leaned back against Jon's chest and Jon hooked a leg around Tom's. There was barely enough room for both of them this way but Tom didn't mind. He closed his eyes and closed his hand around Jon's calf, under Jon's pant leg. Jon pushed him up for a minute while he took off his shirt, then let Tom fall back. He said something against Tom's hair.

"What?" Tom said.

"I said, can I have some money tomorrow?"

Tom twisted around to look at him. Jon laughed. "No, I mean, I thought I might ride back into town and see if I can buy a typewriter in the market. I would have done it today but I didn't realize we weren't staying in town and I just – I didn't think of it."

"Going to write your big story finally?" Tom said. "The story of your wild adventures with the infamous Carden gang?"

"The story of our adventures," Jon said, and Tom smiled and closed his eyes again. He fell asleep like that, with Jon's hand on his hip and Jon's mouth in his hair.

 

****************

 

In the morning Tom wakes up to Butcher banging on the door. "Come on, get up, Carden wants to get on the road early. Big day today," and Tom rolls out from under Jon's hand. He's as quiet as he can be, because Jon can sleep deeply sometimes, but Jon's eyes open.

"Can I come with you?" he says, the way he always does, and Tom shakes his head, same as always. When Jon frowns like he always does Tom says,

"Don't take it so hard, today's the last job."

Jon tugs him back and kisses him quickly. Tom's in a hurry but he lets him. "Just be careful, okay?" Jon says. He's never said that before.

"Sure," Tom says. "Don't worry," and he's never said that either. "It's almost over, it's the last job, one big hit –"

"I know," Jon says. "One big hit and then you're done, then we hit the road."

Tom smiles. "I dreamed about it last night," he says, and then Butcher's pounding on the door again and Tom leaves before he has a chance to tell Jon about his dream.


End file.
